


but tonight i need you to stay

by tuupo84



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mafia AU, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, but very lowkey, i think, it doesn't seem that lowkey but it's not like the focus i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuupo84/pseuds/tuupo84
Summary: Daichi was bored.He was bored, and had no idea how to get out of it. His friends would have called it a mid-life crisis - if he had any friends, that is; his colleagues were just that - colleagues, and he had lost touch with pretty much all of his school and college friends a few years back. If he still talked to them and told them about this whole I’m-bored-of-everything situation, though, Noya and Tanaka would’ve laughed; Asahi would’ve patted him on his shoulder in a it-will-get-better sorta way; Tsukishima would’ve scoffed, and Suga would…Daichi shook his head at the thought, forcing ghosts of the past out of his head.Then, one particular of said ghosts knocks on his door.aka i accidentally found a playlist i made in like 2014 and put it on while i was in the shower and on the run and go started playing and i got this shitty idea and yeah sorry,,,,,
Relationships: Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. don't wanna call you in the nighttime

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the run and go by twenty one pilots,, not beta-ed  
> (it's not as cringe as it seems ok i promise,,,,,,)

Daichi watched the clock strike midnight with a mild lack of interest. 

It was a particularly rainy and warm summer evening, the hum of the fan on his small coffee table almost drowned out by the drumming of the rain on the windowsills. He had opened the windows in the living room slash kitchen in hopes of getting a refreshing gust of wind into the stuffy apartment, but instead of fresh air he got puddles of rainwater pooling on the floor; the wood was already stained by years of similar accidents caused by previous tenants, and so Daichi didn’t bother cleaning up yet. The dishes in the sink had piled up over the past few days, a suit jacket was sloppily hung up over the back of the lonely chair by a table that once upon a time served as a dining table, but now was simply four legs carrying towers upon towers of paperwork, binders, and brown folders marked with ominous “confidential” stamps; the tv was playing a rerun of some series that could've been considered nostalgic, but currently was serving as background noise.

Daichi was bored.

He wasn’t bored just right now, half a minute past midnight at a particularly rainy and warm summer evening - he was bored in general. Nothing caught his interest anymore; in fact, if he’d been bothered to give it a moment of thought, he’d realise he’d been bored of everything for the past months, if not years. His job didn’t bring him the excitement or joy he expected of it when he started his education at the police academy; the food he used to enjoy didn’t taste as good anymore; men and women came and left, none making any impressions, leaving his mind unsatisfied, and his body satisfied for mere seconds; movies never caught his interest anymore, and the series he used to be able to follow for years were left forgotten, new seasons being released without being watched. He even skipped past the volleyball matches on tv without a second thought, his finger hovering over the channel button only for a brief moment when he spotted a certain duo on the court. 

Daichi was bored.

He was bored, and had no idea how to get out of it. His friends would have called it a mid-life crisis - if he had any friends, that is; his colleagues were just that - colleagues, and he had lost touch with pretty much all of his school and college friends a few years back. If he still talked to them and told them about this whole I’m-bored-of-everything situation, thought, Noya and Tanaka would’ve laughed; Asahi would’ve patted him on his shoulder in a it-will-get-better sorta way; Tsukishima would’ve scoffed, and Suga would… 

Daichi shook his head at the thought, forcing ghosts of the past out of his head. There was no point in dwelling on it, and so he fixed his gaze on the flickering tv screen. Despite his best efforts he couldn’t concentrate on the series, and his gaze wandered towards the clock on the wall again, then to the open window. When had his life become so… Dull? Bland? Average? He didn’t even know if this counted as average. Was the average citizen living in a crappy apartment with way too high mortgage, living on takeaway, watching people pass by but taking no interest in them, waiting for something exciting to happen? What was the something exciting anyway? Daichi couldn’t remember last time he felt the spark of excitement in his life.

Lie.

He remembered the rush of excitement from a few months prior as well as if it was just yesterday.

_“Sawamura-san?” A head of dark, messy hair appeared in the gap between the door and the doorway._

_“Yes, Okiwana-san?”_

_“There’s a case.” The man walked into the office, eyes fixed on Daichi sat behind the desk; his left hand was clutching a thin, brown folder. Daichi could spot the red letters spelling CONFIDENTIAL on the cover. He narrowed his gaze at the folder, then at his co-worker._

_“I told everyone explicitly not to bother me unless it has anything to do with the gang-related crimes.” his voice sounded more annoyed and angry than he had hoped it would. No need to be unfriendly right off the bat; he didn’t bother excusing his strict tone of voice._

_“I know.” Oikawa said. Daichi sighed._

_“And yet you’re he-”_

_“It’s Sugawara Koushi, Da-... Sawamura-san.”_

It had been thrilling; Daichi had thrown himself into the work, digging up old papers, talking to his co-workers, discussing the case with fellow officers at lunch, joining stakeouts, personally interrogating potential witnesses or members of bigger and smaller gangs that could have any information. He had replaced the yellowing shirts from his wardrobe with new ones, fixed the hole in the pocket of his favourite suit jacket, gotten rid of the five o’clock shadow that had, until then, permanently made itself at home on his chin and upper lip. He led meetings again, welcomed new ideas with an open mind, assigned people to related cases. The new bits of information provided by a random junkie (supported by many other random junkies, as well as a random, non-junkie witness) had lit new light on the many unsolved cases that had made themselves at home in the drawers of the file room under letter S for Sugawara Koushi. All the files had been pulled out and hauled upstairs to the meeting room by his office by an unlucky rookie, and all of them were read and analyzed again.

Daichi knew that his colleagues welcomed his enthusiasm with open arms. He would be lying if he said he didn’t hear the whispers in the cafeteria, or that he hadn’t seen the headlines of the paper when he went out to get cigarettes. He might’ve not had friends to explicitly tell him he had fallen into a mid-life crisis, but he wasn’t stupid, or deaf, or blind. There were talks about him being burnt out, articles about him losing his touch, missing the curiosity that made him chief of the Tokyo police department in the first place. Some ballsy journalist went as far as speculating whether Sawamura Daichi would resign in a lengthy article about the rising of cases in gang-related crime in Tokyo. He apologized in a short article the day later; rumours had it he was put in charge of deciding which comic strips were to be put at the last page of the daily paper. Daichi never figured out who convinced the journalist to write the apology, but he could make an educated guess based on the reassuring gazes sent in the general direction of Oikawa’s desk as Daichi entered the precinct the morning following the publication of the scandalous article.

He was thankful for their dedication, and even more thankful for their loyalty. He noticed how the atmosphere at the precinct had changed, how there always was fresh vanilla creamer in the fridge, how people greeted him with genuine smiles in the morning. He noticed it all, and was eternally grateful. It reminded him of how it was to be a captain again, how it was to be a trusted leader, and how nice it was to be a part of a team again. It made him feel bad for his years of bitterness towards his colleagues, and for the amount of times he turned down invitations for post-work hangouts at the nearby bar. He wasn’t the best at showing his gratefulness, but then again, he always was one to express his feelings in actions rather than words; his sudden engagement in the Sugar files, as the stupid Oikawa christened them, helped solving several connected, albeit smaller cases. Rumours on the streets said the petty criminals put away for seemingly pointless burglaries were underlings of the biggest yakuza boss in the capital. 

Then, the steady trickle of intel provided by junkies and random witnesses suddenly came to a halt. The pile of unsolved files made their way back to the drawers, and the disinterest and lukewarm responses to new cases returned with Daichi’s stubble. 

He sighed, dragging a hand across his face, setting the beer bottle back on the coffee table, almost knocking the fan over in the process. He wouldn’t get anywhere with this pondering; there was no point in dissecting the past. He had given up on that particular activity way back when he first heard the familiar name of his (former) best friend in relation to the underbelly of Tokyo. With another sigh Daichi rose from the lumpy sofa, stretching; his back ached from hours of leaning over the low table and the few open files scattered around. The heavy silence filling the flat once he clicked the tv off reminded him of why he had it on as background noise in the first place; the hum of the fan and the pounding of the rain against the roof was as suffocating as the air in the humid room. With yet another sigh Daichi made a mental note to look into dehumidifiers before he shuffled towards the bathroom to find a towel. The puddles beneath the windows wouldn't clean themselves.

The knock was so careful that Daichi almost missed it as he looked for a towel or rag suitable to clean up the mess. He stood completely still, looking toward the entrance door, before he came to the conclusion that he probably imagined it, or heard wrong; it was probably just the rain, or maybe just those typical old house noises. The knock sounded again, though, equally careful and weak. Who the hell knocks on the door past midnight in this weather? Dropping the towel he just found back onto the floor, Daichi made his way to the door. As a seasoned police officer he should probably have been more careful, more suspicious, and somewhere in the back of his mind he regretted swinging the door open as soon as the deed is done. 

He didn’t have time to regret or think twice about his carelessness.

“Hi, Daichi.” 

The words were a whisper, a mere shadow of what Daichi remembered from high school. The voice was more hoarse, deeper than he could recall; blonde, almost silver hair messy; frame and posture lacking the elegance and boyish charm; hands that used to gesticulate wildly during heated conversations, hands that used to yank Daichi down by the front of his shirt, were now clutched to the man’s stomach, and through those slender fingers Daichi could see a dark... no, a red stain blooming on the fabric of the hoodie. 

Sugawara Koushi, Daichi’s best friend plus from high school and the leader of the biggest yakuza organization in Tokyo, if not the whole fucking country, stood on Daichis doorstep, soaked to the bone, clutching a bloody wound on his stomach. 

“What the fuck?”


	2. don't wanna give you all my pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It uhh turned out longer than i planned, and ideally it would be two chapters but i wanna the whole thing to fit with the song lyrics used as chapter titles because i'm dumb like that. enjoy.

The constant hum of rain filled the heavy silence between them. Daichi was too baffled, too surprised, to utter another word; he was staring at Suga as if he just saw a ghost (or maybe a fallen angel - Suga could totally pass off as an angel with his pale hair, soft features, those big, pretty eyes, the smile, oh, the smile), all thoughts suddenly gone from his head, as if he had lost the ability to speak. Suga, on the other hand, seemed simply too exhausted, too hurt, to even start saying anything. He just stood there, swaying as if he was about to fall. 

Fuck.

Daichi reached out towards him with one hand, and the moment his fingertips brushed by Sugas wet shoulder, the other man took a small step forward, stumbling through the door, slumping towards Daichi.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Sugawara breathed out, wincing at his body’s impact with Daichis chest. The politeness seemed automatic, and Daichi couldn't help but to breathe out something resembling a laugh. Of course, of all things Suga could've said in this situation, he’d choose the polite option - as if that would excuse all the years with lack of any contact, as if it would erase the fact that he had disappeared out of Daichis life without as much as a goodbye, as if the polite phrase would heal the old, painful wound in Daichis soul that cracked open the moment his eyes met Sugas mere seconds ago.

“What the fuck?” Daichi repeated, because it was the only thing he could say right now anyway, his mind still processing the fact that his old friend (ex-lover? former best friend?) was here, in his arms. Suga was, despite being very wet, very quiet, and obviously very not okay, still very much the same Suga Daichi remembered. His repeated question didn’t receive any other answer than the sound of something (blood? rainwater?) dripping down onto the tiled floor in the entryway.

“Put some pressure on that, for Christ's sake, come on,” Daichi mumbled, taking another step back, further into the apartment. Suga didn't follow, his arms falling down his sides, leaning heavily into Daichi. He was probably going into shock; gods know when he was wounded (shot? stabbed?), and how long it took him to get to Daichis home.

How did he know where Daichi lived anyway? How did he know which door to knock on? Did he actually keep tabs on Daichi? Was it because he missed him, or was it just some shady yakuza thing? Did he keep tabs on other policemen as well? Did he do it out of his own initiative, or as a part of his criminal activity club? Did he know about the Sugar files (damn you, Oikawa)? Did he know how much time Daichi spent looking for him, how he turned down the position of the chief of police a few years back in order to find out more about Suga’s whereabouts? The thoughts collided with each other in his mind, jumbling together in an incomprehensible mess, but Daichi pushed them away; they would have to wait because he had more important things to do, namely getting Suga conscious again.

Now, in any other circumstance, if an old friend showed up at Daichis doorstep at midnight with a bloody wound in their stomach, the first thing Daichi would do would be to call the goddamn ambulance, just as any other sane person would have done. Why the thought of calling an ambulance or at least driving Suga to the ER didn’t even occur to him was a totally other question, one he didn't have time to consider right now; one wouldn’t think a seasoned policeman would ever be this reckless, this stupid.

Mentally scolding himself, Daichi picked Suga up in one, swift motion, one arm under his knees, the other around his shoulders. He could tell Suga was heavier than the last time he had done this; it might also simply have been the impression he got though, considering the fact that the other man was not cooperating like he usually would when scooped up this way. Suga’s arms dangled lifelessly down his sides, his head heavily leaning into his chest. His hair left wet stains on Daichis shirt, and the blood freely dripping down on the floor left a trail of red from the hallway to the living room. 

“Suga?” Daichi called softly to the other man; step one, call the victims name, check if they’re conscious. A stupid idea, cosnidering that Suga was obviously very not conscious. 

Fuck.

“Hey, Suga, open your eyes,” Daichi kept speaking as he laid the other man down on the couch. The blood pooling around Suga’s wound trickled down, immediately staining the grey pillows. Daichi didn’t notice.

He quickly started unbuttoning Sugas bloody shirt, subconsciously pushing away the mental image of doing this before - fingers pushing buttons through their respective  
holes, room dark and silence filled with heavy breaths; the heat pooling in his stomach as he exposed more and more skin with every new button undone; hands scratching red marks on his back, blood flowing to his groin, wet kisses left on his neck-

Fuck.

The wound was probably caused by a knife, Daichi concluded as he pushed the unbuttoned shirt out of the way to have a better look. He could tell it was a clean cut, one that didn’t seem to puncture any vital organs; in no way could he be sure, of course, but as a police officer, Daichi had seen a fair share of stab wounds, enough to judge whether one was fatal or not. Step two, make sure the victim isn’t in dire need of medical attention from a professional; the wound would need stitches, but Daichi was pretty sure he could manage putting on a few strips of medical stitching tape.

The wounded man woke up somewhere along the process of Daichi cleaning the wound; he hissed in pain at the rubbing alcohol, to which Daichi handed him a bottle of whiskey from the sofa table. Suga downed a good quarter of it before his head fell back onto the armrest of the couch, unconscious, or maybe just exhausted. 

“You awake?” Daichi asked, softly, not looking up from the contents of the first aid kit box in his lap; he was looking for bandages. To his surprise, the question was answered with a soft groan. 

“Awake.” Suga’s voice was exactly as Daichi remembered it, too - it was the same voice Suga greeted him with in the mornings, after a good night's sleep after training and… other activities of physical nature - ragged, a bit hoarse, slightly deeper than usual. 

It made Daichi’s stomach flip, memories suddenly washing over him, flushing his cheeks just in the slightest.

Their gazes met for a split second before Daichi fumbled with the first aid kit box, pulling out a roll of bandages and a pair of small scissors. Suga returned his attention to the bottle on the table and reached for it. Daichi handed it to him so the other man didn’t have to move too much. 

“Can you sit up?” 

“Maybe,” still clutching the bottle, Suga attempted to get up; it resulted with a groan in pain. “No, not by myself.”

Go figure, the man with a goddamn stab wound to the stomach was unable to sit up. Daichi scolded himself mentallty (again) for asking such a stupid question, and rose to his feet. Without another word he helped the other up into a sitting position; it was probably still painful, even with help, but at least Suga didn’t pass out again. 

“Gotta patch you up properly.” Daichi informed, holding the bandage up. Suga simply nodded, still dazed.

Rolling the bandages out and around Suga’s torso was easy; it felt natural to sit this close again, Suga on the low couch, Daichi kneeling in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he steadily moved the white roll from one hand to the other and then behind Suga’s back. It probably _shouldn’t_ feel this natural especially considering the circumstances, but the familiarity of the situation somehow overshadowed its more questionable aspects.

Daichi noticed the amount of smaller and bigger scars littering the other man’s body; there was a long line of pale flesh starting just below Suga’s left collarbone, travelling across his torso, ending by his right hip; there was a small, round scar (bullet wound, Daichi immediately knew) on his left bicep, another by his navel, and one on his left thigh; there was a bunch of other scars, small and big, of origin unknown to Daichi. Some were partially covered by tattoos (why the hell does a mob boss have so many flower tattoos?), and some partially covered some of said tattoos (Daichi couldn’t get a good look, but there were a bunch of roses inked on Sugas left shoulder; the smooth, black lines were interrupted by a long, pale pink line of scar tissue, clearly fresher than most of the other scars). 

Daichi noticed the moles, small, brown spots scattered across Suga’s skin, somehow perfectly untouched by all the scars and lines of ink; two on his right shoulder, another one right above the right elbow; an almost perfect line of four moles along his rib cage on his left side; constellations of melanin scattered across his chest, and his back, down his thighs, all undisturbed and visible and in all those places Daichi remembers - and oh, does he remember! He used to trail his fingers from one mole to another, drawing invisible lines between them, Suga’s skin so soft under his fingertips. He used to kiss every single one of those little dots, spending hours upon hours just adoring them, adoring _him_ , and those were the hours of perfect, undisturbed calm, and -

Daichi noticed all the tiny changes, less prominent than scars or tattoos; how more defined Suga’s body had become, once delicate, almost frail, had now taken more shape; how his face had lost the boyish look, become more adult, more mature, but yet as soft and kind as ever.

Daichi noticed, and he didn’t comment on it.

If Suga caught sight of the intensity of Daichi’s gaze, he didn’t show it. He seemed contempt with the silence, or maybe he was simply too tired, too dazed to think too much about anything. Daichi wouldn’t have blamed him. 

“All done.”

“Thank you, Dai.”

“No problem.”

More silence.

Their eyes met again. Daichi was certain his gaze exposed more of the thoughts and feelings currently fighting about the upper hand in his head than he cared to actually show; he was incredibly happy to see Suga again, more happy than he would ever admit to anyone; he was pissed at his old friend’s reappearance out of nowhere; he was surprised, and he was confused, because who the hell shows up at someone’s house in the middle of the night, stabbed in the side, not uttering any word of explanation? 

Suga’s gaze was filled with an expression Daichi couldn’t decipher. Was it an apology? Gratefulness? Was it surprise over the fact that Daichi didn’t ask any questions? Daichi couldn’t tell - he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what exactly went through Suga’s head right now; sometimes it was better to accept uncertainty.

The silence shifted; instead of being heavy and full of ponder, it became electric, with an undertone of expectation, and if it lasted for a split second longer, Daichi would probably lean in, make a move, do the thing he had wanted to do since they so unexpectedly parted ways almost ten years ago. 

Regretfully (or maybe thankfully, Daichi thought later), the silence didn’t last that split second longer. Instead, Suga let himself fall sideways on the sofa, one hand still closed around the neck of the whiskey bottle, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Thank you, Dai.”

Daichi felt something inside him almost melt at those soft, familiar words spoken in such soft, familiar voice, the tone calm and warm, as if the person saying them didn’t just undergo an hour of being bandaged. He was about to say something, remind Suga that he thanked him just earlier, but couldn’t bring himself to it - Suga’s breathing evened out quickly, chest heaving slowly. He fell asleep.

Carefully not to move the sleeping man too much, Daichi pulled the blanket hung over one of the armrests of the couch from under Suga’s feet; he silently folded it over the other’s unmoving body, before settling himself with his back to the couch, arms leaning on the coffee table now filled with paper towels, used bandages, and bloody towels. 

Now that the adrenaline and surprise started to fade, Daichi felt how exhausted he actually was; taking care of stab wounds was surprisingly tiresome. Maybe that’s why he didn’t pursue being a doctor, or something. He glanced back at the sleeping Suga, and for a second allowed himself to take in the sight of the other man. He looked so peaceful and soft; Daichi had to fight the urge to let his fingers run through those ashy blonde strands of hair that mischievously fell down over his face, had to stop himself from brushing his fingertips along the soft skin of his jaw, had to resist the wish to kiss his his forehead stained with dried blood and sweat.

He was too tired to try to fight these thoughts off now - after all, he had spent all night pushing away all the shadows from the past that had accompanied a wounded Sugawara into his apartment. Daichi had been too busy with the bandaging, too preoccupied with processing the fact that his childhood friend was in his ratty apartment, to allow himself to dwell for too long on certain memories. Now, though, he allowed all those thoughts, all the memories of touching Suga, to wash over him and lull him to sleep. 

_Soft lips on his, a hand under his chin, fingers brushing through his hair._

Daichi stirred in his sleep.

_A warm hand travelling down his neck, dipping under his t-shirt; feather-soft touches following his spine._

Daichi shifted.

_A soft murmur, a voice, whispering something he didn’t quite catch; the voice felt like coming home, and he wished the softness of the words could accompany him forever._

Daichi woke up from the sun shining directly onto his face through the open window. He was sitting on the floor, arms propped up on the couch, head in the crook of his elbow. He blinked a few times; didn’t he fall asleep leaning on the coffee table? Wait, why wasn’t he in bed in the first place? 

The events of the previous night chimed through his head. Suga. Stab wound. A lot of blood. A kiss? No, that was his dream, wasn’t it?

“Good morning sunshine!” a chipper voice startled Daichi into an upright sitting position. Suga’s fair head was barely visible from behind the tower of papers sitting on the table splitting the kitchen and living room. 

“You slept so soundly that I didn’t want to wake you,” Suga continued, turning away. It was first now that Daichi noticed the smell of fresh coffee and bacon (did he even have bacon in the fridge? He really doubted it), the chirps of birds outside the window, and the steady hum of both the kitchen fan and the fan placed on the coffee table. The pile of bloody towels and bandages was nowhere to be seen; in its place were two servings of toast and egg.

“I took advantage of your kitchen, hope that’s fine.” Suga walked over to the couch, mug containing what Daichi could only assume was coffee. The shock and surprise from the previous day hit him twice as hard - it wasn’t a dream, Suga was actually here, and, judging by the way he carefully sat down on the carpet on the other side of the coffee table, actually hurt. Suga must have noticed the odd expression on Daichi’s face, because he furrowed his brows slightly, eyes suddenly worried.

“It’s fine, right?” He asked again, looking at Daichi who could absolutely not utter a word under the intensity of the gaze.

“I mean, i had to clean a bit because your kitchen is a mess, and i had to get bacon and eggs - you really have to clean more around here, and-”

“It’s fine.” Daichi’s words were a mere whisper, and he mentally scolded himself at once for being such a wuss. Suga’s expression was impossible to read again, a mix of something like relief, or maybe anxiety - Daichi was never one to be able to read Suga very well, despite… despite everything. 

“Sorry for the mess. And intrusion.”

“It’s fine,” Daichi repeated, unable to say anything else - again. For some reason he’d been unable to speak properly since Suga entered his mind only being able to put together simple sentences. 

It was odd, really, especially since Daichi had so many questions about what on Earth was going on, but none of the intended questions ever made it past his lips. They kept dwelling in his head, and he wasn’t able to form them with his mouth.

Their eyes met for the first time since last night; it was for maybe a quarter of a second, probably even less, but Daichi found himself lost in the softness of Suga’s gaze, in the intensity of it, in the odd expression he couldn’t decipher. That gaze did something to him, something he couldn’t explain; it clutched at his heart, tightened his chest, made it feel like he was unable to breathe for a brief moment.

“Thank you for the food,” Suga sing-sang. Daichi just nodded. 

They ate in silence, none of them making any move to break it. It felt weird to have somebody to eat breakfast with - Daichi couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever stayed the night, let alone prepared him breakfast in the morning. It felt weird, but good weird. At least he thought it was good.

Suga was the first to finish eating. The quiet clatter of the coffee mug put on the empty plate made Daichi look up from his own cup. On the other side of the table, Suga rose to his feet, carefully stretching his back.

“I should get going,” he said, matter-of-factly. For some reason, Daichi could feel his heart drop. Of course Suga had to go, Daichi knew that - and yet there was a pang of disappointment somewhere in his mind. He couldn’t help it, even though rationally, he was fully aware that this was no reunion, this was not a let’s-catch-up. He shouldn't allow himself to be disappointed.

Suga sent him a funny look, opened his mouth as if to say something more, before he shook his head, as if he changed his mind.

“I’ll get going.” And with that, he made his way to the door, stepping into his shoes, reaching for his jacket that Daichi had discarded in a messy pile on the floor the night before. “Again, thanks for this,” Suga said, cheerfully, slapping a hand against his wounded side. It must’ve hurt, because he winced.

“Take care of yourself.” Daichi had followed him into the small hallway, watched quietly as Suga got ready to leave. The other man smiled at him - that angelic smile, the one that had always made Daichi’s knees go weak.

“I always do.”

“Still.”

The silence between them wasn’t as heavy as earlier. They just looked at eachother, Suga smiling widely as if this was, in fact, just a let’s-catch-up, and Daichi with what he assumed was a puzzled expression on his face, corners of his mouth slightly pointing upwards. 

“So you still can smile.” Suga remarked. It took Daichi a second to process the statement. He was about to answer when the blonde man stepped closer to him (which wasn’t hard considering the very small entryway). 

Suga’s lips were soft and sweet, the taste of coffee still lingering on them. He was going into the kiss in full force, just like Daichi remembered from their high school days - careless, confident, like a tsunami wave.

Daichi didn’t have time to return the kiss, didn’t have time to reciprocate; before he realised what the hell was happening, Suga pulled away, suddenly as he leaned in.

“It was nice seeing you!” was the last thing the policeman heard before the door opened and closed, leaving Daichi standing there, socked feet on the cold tiles, body frozen in shock and surprise. He returned to his living room on autopilot and flopped down on the couch.

What had just happened?

If it wasn’t for the blood stain on the sofa cushions, the empty cup stacked on an empty plate on the small table, and the lingering taste of Suga’s lips on his, Daichi would've sworn this was a dream. A fever dream, to be exact. Or maybe a wet dream.

It was almost so he didn’t notice the yellow post-it note stuck to the table fan. 

Three words, an address, and a phone number, scribbled down with a purple pen (Did Daichi own a purple pen? He couldn't remember,) in Sugas neat handwriting.

_Let’s have dinner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading so far, next chapter will be up along the week. tell me what you think? xox


End file.
